Chapter 6 - Breaking the CrownMargaret stopped three feet from the counter, panting, her chest heaving underneath her ruined mink coat. Grant hung back near the door, his eyes darting frantically toward Detective Miller, who had already casually rested his hand on his service weapon.
"Look at you," Margaret sneered, pointing a trembling, diamond-ringed finger at my face. "Living in this filthy hovel, serving slop to peasants. You think a few fake audits and police threats are going to bring down the Holloway family? We built this city!"
I set the coffee pot down on the counter with a heavy, deliberate clank.
"You didn't build anything, Margaret," I said, my voice cutting through the silent diner like a butcher’s knife. "You inherited a chain of grocery stores from a husband who worked himself to death while you sat in country clubs buying pearls. And your son inherited a silver spoon that he used to beat my daughter when he couldn't handle his own failures."
Margaret’s face flushed a deep, violent crimson. "You delusional old b—"
"Detective," I said, looking past her toward Miller.
Miller pulled a crisp, folded federal document from his coat pocket and stepped forward. "Margaret Holloway, you are under arrest for corporate conspiracy, tax fraud, and obstruction of justice based on evidence recovered during today’s SEC raid."
Margaret staggered backward as if she’d been physically struck. "Arrested? You can't arrest me! Do you know who I am? I know the mayor!"
"The mayor just released a public statement distancing his office from your family five minutes ago," Miller replied smoothly, snapping cold steel handcuffs around her wrists. The sharp click echoed through the quiet diner like a gunshot.
Grant rushed forward, panic breaking through his polished exterior. "Mom! Mom, wait! Detective, please, there’s been a mistake—"
"And you, Grant," Miller said, turning his gaze toward the golden boy of Lake Forest, "violating a protective order and witness intimidation are federal offenses. Put your hands behind your back."
Grant froze. He looked at me, his eyes wide with desperate pleading. "Evelyn... please. Please tell him to stop. We can make a deal. I’ll give you everything. Just don't let them take me to jail."
I walked slowly around the counter, stopping right in front of him. The man who had sat scrolling through his phone while his wife bled on a Persian rug was now shaking like a leaf in a winter storm.
May you like
I reached out, gently patted him on the cheek—the exact same spot where I had slapped him three days ago—and smiled.
"You had seventy-two hours to beg, Grant," I whispered softly. "You just looked in the wrong direction."
